


And wild for to hold

by ladyaugusta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Frenemies, Idiots in Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-08 11:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16428551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyaugusta/pseuds/ladyaugusta
Summary: Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish do not kiss until six months after their wedding. Theirs is not a tale of love at first sight. AU. A young Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish marry. It works out in the end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this slightly altered timeline Petyr and Cersei are the same age, about 15-16.

Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish do not kiss until six months after their wedding. Theirs is not a tale of love at first sight.

Cersei Lannister despises Riverrun. It lacks the magnificence of Casterly Rock, it is far from court, and worst of all it is the home of Catelyn Tully. Little Miss Insufferably Perfect, Catelyn. Lysa is a fool and Edmure is a silly child, but it is Catelyn who irritates Cersei to the core.

That evening, Catelyn is dancing and smiling and blushing prettily, and Cersei rolls her eyes at the buffoons who are trying to catch her attention. They have a funny look on their face, these men who are so entranced with the trout girl. As though she were the maiden reborn. Men also look at Cersei, but their eyes tell a different story. They lust for Cersei, they love Catelyn.

Par for the course, Cersei supposes. Nobody loves her. If her father had loved her he wouldn't have sent her to this dreadful place, to be the ward of these dull, predictable river folk. But that stupid septa had seen Jaime and Cersei fumbling together and she had opened her mouth, and then there was nothing to be done. Cersei had been packed off to Riverrun. Three years she'd spent in this abode. Three wasted years, for she could have spent those years at court, near Rhaegar.

Rhaegar! Another man who did not care for her, who would not gaze at her with that precious look of love.

Cersei glances at Catelyn and smirks. Catelyn is not nearly as pretty as Cersei, and if men insist in dancing with her, in catching her eye, then it is because they are stupid. And maybe any other night this fawning behavior would not disturb her, but she's just had word that Jaime is to wed Ashara Dayne and Petyr is dancing with Catelyn again.

Jaime, wretched fool who had promised to forever love Cersei and now he's writing a letter extolling the many virtues of Ashara, who he's had a chance to get to know in King's Landing. King's Landing! Cersei should be in King's Landing! Not here, at this ridiculous feast and that is four dances that Petyr has danced with Catelyn.

Cersei doesn't even know why she's counting. Petyr is as insufferable as the rest of them, but at least he is not weak. She cannot abide weakness. But that boy is made of steel and she recognizes something in the sardonic arch of his smile, something that she's seen in the mirror.

Look at them, these idiots. That is what Petyr's smile tells her most days. Only now he's not smiling like that, he's just mooning at Catelyn and Cersei downs another cup of wine and she wishes she were far, far away.

Ashara Dayne! One of the most beautiful women in the world, they said. Surely not more beautiful than Cersei. Surely not! Although you wouldn't know she was beautiful and young and desirable in this dreary hall where all the men fear asking her to dance, for her cutting tongue and sharp barbs are already legendary.

And what if she does not wish to dance? These oafs step on ladies' toes, they do not dance. Or else they press the women tight against their bodies, trying to brush a hand against their bosom. Cersei supposes that they'd like her more if she allowed them certain small liberties, like Catelyn and the others allow certain timid gestures.

For example, Catelyn is now beginning her fifth dance with Petyr and five is a bit much, but Catelyn must think it very fun to lead the boy on like this.

Well, what if Cersei does not lead these men on! What if she prefers to sit prim and proper and drink her wine. It is not as if a dance and a bit of conversation with these men would be more enticing. What would they say? The same lines she's heard a thousand times before and oh she's bored and she's angry.

And, ah, at last! Petyr has gone too far, he has tried to coax a kiss from Catelyn but she's pushed him away. Pushed him away and laughed at him. She's a little hypocrite, Catelyn, because Petyr and Catelyn and Lysa have played together at kissing many times. And if Cersei did not participate in those games it was because she had better things to do than make crowns of flowers and pretend that the slim boy with the laughing gray-green eyes was a knight. It's not as if Petyr is really good looking, anyway. Jaime is handsome and Rhaegar is beautiful, and Petyr is just the plain lord of an extremely plain holding.

So, yes, Catelyn is a hypocrite and it serves Petyr right.

He looks utterly miserable, sitting in a corner and downing a cup of ale and Cersei moves close to him, a smile on her lips, for there is nothing that she adores more than a little drop of misery.

"Ah, has Cat tired of you already?" Cersei asks. It's more a purr than a question and Petyr doesn't bother looking at her, he is too busy drinking.

"Go away, Cersei," he says.

She wants him to look at her. He wants him to turn his head and look at her, and she seethes as he sits there ignoring her, drinking, wishing to be alone. But she is going to make him look. By the Seven, she'll make him look.

"Don't be so gloomy. It's not like it's the first time she's laughed at you. She does it all the time. I've heard her joke about you with Lysa. She thinks you're a perfect fool."

This gets her the reaction she wants and Petyr looks at Cersei.

"You lie," he says.

She grins. "I swear it. Don't look so surprised, you know it's true."

He grabs her hand much too tightly, meaning to hurt her, his fingers digging into her wrist, but she pulls back, sharp and quick as a snake and stands up. She stumbles a little. The room wavers. She's had too much to drink.

Well, what of it? Maybe Catelyn will chide her for it later. Little Miss Perfect, who knows to drink the right number of cups and dance the right number of dances.

Cersei stumbles out of the hall and she chuckles even if she can't quite walk straight. She feels as if she is about to retch but there's a wild triumph within her because at least she's won something, she's won this match and that is something.

It has to be something. To have the last word.

He ruins it by following her and when she stumbles Petyr helps her up to her feet and she slaps his arm.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

"You are drunk," he says.

"So are you, you idiot. I saw you back there, crying into your cup."

"I should let you break your neck."

"Let me. I don't need your help. I can find my way to my chambers."

"Very well," he says and he's walking away.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"You said you can find your way," he replies with a shrug. "I'm going to my chambers."

She notices then that he carries a bottle of wine in his left hand. "Do you intend to drink some more, all alone in the dark?"

"Well, what of it?" he asks, defiant.

"Give me that," she says, snatching the bottle away and between one thing and the other, between taunts and japes, they make it to his room determined to outdrink each other.

It's a stupid child's game and Cersei knows it. As stupid as making flower crowns and pretending this boy in his simple, gray doublet is a knight. But she doesn't wish to go to bed yet and she doesn't wish to go back to the hall and the music and the dance. It is much better to sit on the floor and drink, and play cards.

Petyr is always a good card player, but Cersei has learned a trick or two. After they've played two hands she's bored and to up the stakes, since they have no coins to bet, she tells him whoever loses the next hand must divest themselves from an item of clothing. He shrugs, with that indifferent shrug that is completely his, and agrees.

Two hands later he's lost his vest and shoes, but three hands later she realizes her mistake as she's fumbling with the laces of her dress – he's not that drunk and plays better than her. He asks her if she's a chicken and she fumes and finally takes the dress off and glares at him and she's in her underslip now and they are both sitting on his bed because the floor is cold and hard.

And not long after at they've run out of wine and Cersei is stretching her arms up above her head and yawning, stretching on the bed and looking at the ceiling while he also stretches next to her. She is content. It's an odd feeling. She is used to only feeling the sharp pang of dissatisfaction.

"My brother is to marry Ashara Dayne," she tells him.

"And you despise her," Petyr says.

She's not looking at him, but she knows he's smiling. She can hear it in his voice.

"Oh, I despise everyone," Cersei replies.

"Even me, your very best confidant and ally?" he asks, taunting her.

"I despise you too. But I despise you a little less than the others," she admits.

He lets out a dry chuckle and Cersei closes her eyes. He speaks again, his voice low and for the first time in forever she thinks he actually sounds honest. "Thanks for distracting me."

"I didn't do it for you. I was bored," she mutters.

Maybe he laughs again. She thinks he laughs. And she dreams of Jaime, dreams of the bright, beautiful court at King's Landing. Dreams of Rhaegar playing the harp and the crown she'll never wear. But she also dreams that she's sitting by the river bend and the water is cool against her fingers and the birds are singing.

And then Lysa Tully shatters Cersei's pleasant dream with her screams. Lysa screams so loud Cersei thinks half the castle must have heard her. And they do. That is how and why she is married to Petyr bloody Baelish: because that simpleton crept into his room and found them asleep together.

The madness of it! Of course, Cersei realizes how it looks, she realizes the folly of it all, but she is incensed nevertheless. She wishes she could tell them all to simply call for a septa, to have someone verify her maidenhead is intact. But of course it's not. She was foolish enough to tarry with Jaime the one time he came to Riverrun with the purpose of inspecting Lysa Tully as a possible bride. And now she'll have to marry Petyr Baelish because everyone thinks they are lovers and they've never even held hands.

Oh, if only her father trusted her, trusted her judgment! But Tywin Lannister sent Cersei to Riverrun for a reason and in his cold missive, Cersei can read between the lines.

He despises her. He probably thinks her a slut. Maybe Jaime even opened up his stupid mouth and confessed about that one occasion when they lay together in Riverrun. Maybe he told their father and Tywin forgave Jaime and orchestrated the engagement to Ashara Dayne with an indulging smile.

Cersei doesn't doubt it one bit.

Tywin Lannister demands it, so they marry. It's a miserable little feast and Cersei resents everything about it. She resents her gown, which is hastily procured, resents the bland expressions on everyone's faces, resents the simple cloak Petyr places around her shoulders, resents the fact that Jaime cannot be bothered to attend the wedding. She resents the way the men leer at her and take off her dress during the bedding.

When Petyr walks into the wedding chamber she grips the bedsheets with both hands. "If you touch me, I'll strangle you during the night," she warns him.

"You flatter yourself," he replies.

And she thinks she'll strangle him anyway if he smiles that sardonic smile of his at her again. But he has the common sense to go to sleep with his back to her. That is how their married life begins and it does not change until the tourney at Harrenhal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a catch, he thinks. Beautiful and rich and awful.

Petyr Baelish is young but he has already learned to understand the call of opportunity and he is not a man to let it go when it comes knocking at his door in the shape of Cersei Lannister. He marries her because it makes sense, because the other option is to be sent back to the Fingers in shame and because Cersei is too high a prize to refuse. He also doesn't dislike Cersei and he thinks this union might actually work. After all, marriages are strategic alliances.

He thinks this until their wedding actually takes place that is, and then Cersei becomes so insufferable he questions his choice.

She is a wildcat. Oh, it's not that he didn't know Cersei was spiteful, vain and hilariously naïve at times, but her sardonic wit somewhat endeared her to him so that they had become something close to friends at Riverrun. Or as close a friend as Cersei might allow him to be. But now! Her scowls are permanent, her tantrums epic. And there's the gloom. She is mired in sadness and self-loathing.

What a catch, he thinks. Beautiful and rich and awful.

He tries to keep out of his wife's path and throws himself to work. Fortunately there is a great deal to be done at Casterly Rock. The steward is old and lazy, and since Tywin and Jaime have been away at court for years he's made little effort to care for the household beyond the most minimal concerns. Petyr finds the accounts the steward keeps are poor and confusing, and many resources are wasted. So he sets to righting the records and the finances, sets to putting this household in shape.

The work keeps his mind off his troublesome wife and off Catelyn Stark. Wistfully, he thinks of her at times and he wonders if his marriage might not be annulled at some point. After all, Tywin Lannister only pushed for the wedding to spare his daughter's reputation. Perhaps people will take it all in stride, the youthful passion of Cersei and Petyr and the subsequent dissolution of their marriage. It is not as if he plans on fathering any children with her, so why shouldn't they separate and she might marry higher the second time around. And maybe Tywin will be generous and Petyr will set off with gold in his pockets and a better stance in life. He might marry again. Marry his true love.

Such fantasies, such idle dreams! He brushes them away and busies himself with administrative matters.

When Petyr is not working, he tends to spend his time with Tyrion Lannister. He doesn't understand Cersei's loathing of her brother. He is a bright boy, well-learned and eager.

Petyr and Tyrion play cyvasse, and they talk, and Petyr begins to suspect this little boy will rise high one day, that he'll manage to ingratiate himself to the right people once he makes it to court, and that Cersei is blind to ignore her younger brother's potential.

He returns to his chambers one night after playing cyvasse with Tyrion and discussing a history book on the merchants of Volantis the boy has been reading, and his wife throws a brush at him.

Just like that. One moment he is taking off his boots and the next Cersei has tossed a brush at the back of his head.

"Are you mad, woman?" he asks in outrage as he turns around and stares at the young woman sitting up in bed and glaring at him.

"Just because you wish to spend half the night carousing doesn't mean you have a right to interrupt my sleep," she says. "You slammed the door so hard I thought the walls might fall down! And your footsteps… you walk like a drunk mammoth."

"Carousing! I was playing cyvasse with your brother."

"Wasting your time, as usual. All you do is play cyvasse and idle around."

"Idle?" Petyr says, outraged, though he realizes he shouldn't lose his temper. That's exactly what Cersei wants. "I am busy going through rolls and sums, and attempting to instill some discipline into this place."

"Counting fish and bread," Cersei replies. "Who ever heard of a Lord wasting his time trying to count sardines!"

"Your father certainly seems to think those skills will be useful in Lannisport."

Cersei brushes the covers aside and stands up. Her long hair looks golden in the candlelight. She would be rather lovely if it weren't for the ugly scowl marring her brow and the way those green eyes flash at him, sharp as a mountain lion's.

"Lannisport?" Has he said anything about Lannisport?"

"There was a raven today," Petyr says and he sits down again and finishes taking off his boots, then begins to undo the buttons of his vest. "There's a manse there. It's large, but unused and dusty. Your father has given it to us and we ought to make our way there in a few weeks time. I've suggested some changes to the customs procedures and your father believes they'll be best handled if I'm there."

"But Casterly Rock!" Cersei says, clutching one of the bed posts as if she might faint, which makes Petyr smile. If she faints he'll let her fall right to the ground.

She narrows her green eyes and glares at him. "This is your doing! He is exiling us!"

"Don't be ridiculous. He is providing for his daughter and his son-in-law. Jaime and Ashara will be married by the end of the year and she will naturally wish to run her household."

"Casterly Rock cannot belong to Ashara Dayne!"

"It can't certainly belong to you," Petyr points out. "It can't certainly be mine, either. So unless you have a great desire to spend the rest of your days in a tiny keep at the Fingers, I suggest we take your father's offer. This was but a temporary visit for us. Besides, there's more opportunities for us in Lannisport."

"Opportunities for what?" Cersei asks him. "What would you ever expect to do in Lannisport?"

"Really, Cersei. You lack imagination. One of the greatest ports in the westerlands and you cannot understand that money and opportunity might abound there for a young couple like us?"

" _I_ do not lack for money. And when did you plan to discuss this with me!"

"In the morning," Petyr says, brushing a hand through his hair with a sigh, "when you might be more agreeable and less of a harridan."

"You liar! You were not going to tell me anything. You are conspiring against me with my father! No wonder he wrote such garbage to me!"

"What garbage?"

Cersei is pacing up down the room and does not pause to speak, her words fast and hard as stones. "That I should be a good wife to you and that he expects me to give you a son soon enough. He wrote to give you a manse and to admonish me! Well, I most certainly will not be giving you a son any time soon."

"No," Petyr says, "not unless children are born from an accumulation of bile."

She tries to slap him, but he moves away and she ends up stumbling and falling down just as he had wished. He chuckles, but when Cersei turns to look at him her eyes are bright with unshed tears and he feels a pang of remorse.

"Come now," he says, extending his hand to help her up, "don't pretend that you're hurt."

But Cersei has crossed her arms and she is stubbornly staring at him, her lips pursed.

"Do you plan to sleep on the floor?" he asks.

"I cannot believe that my father forced you on me," she shoots back, apparently unwilling to let matters be.

"What were you expecting, Prince Rhaegar?"

Of course everyone suspects that Tywin proposed Cersei as a bride for the prince and the King rejected her. But in Cersei's surprised face and her blushing cheeks Petyr reads some childish notion of love, a fantasy of spun gold. Somehow this little folly, this little dream, reminds him of himself and Catelyn and it that instant he yearns for nothing more than to squash all her childish notions.

"I'm sorry that your father, with all his money, was not able to buy you your handsome prince. But cheer up, in a few years maybe he'll tire of his wife and want for a mistress. I won't mind if you birth a bastard or two as long as he provides some compensation."

He smiles. She stares at him and then his smile falters, because rather than trying to scratch his eyes out or punch him in the face, the girl just sits there looking at her hands.

Finally she stands up and gets in bed. Petyr finishes changing behind a painted screen and then slides under the covers. Cersei's back is to him, as usual and Petyr thinks to blow out the candles by the beside and go to sleep at once, but he still feels a little badly about the whole fight.

"Cersei, I didn't mean that," he says.

Surprisingly, she turns around until they are looking at each other. "Yes you did," she says.

"I didn't."

"You did. And what's worse, it's true. Women are just things for men to use and if you wanted, you could offer me to Rhaegar as his mistress and collect the profits. That is how it goes. That is why my father is giving you a manse in Lannisport and he gives me admonishments. You are a man, and maybe one day you will be a great man, but I'll only be a womb."

What is he supposed to say to that, when she speaks with such unbearable sadness? He's just a boy, really, and he doesn't have the mind to address such bitter truths, they make him uncomfortable. An idea comes to mind and he speaks it, hopeful.

"You know, you could assist me with financial arrangements and deeds and such. And no, don't say that is for the steward to handle. We didn't have a maester nor a steward at the Fingers and it was just as well, it taught me to look into things and that is why I tally with customs issues now."

"Dull," Cersei says, dismissively. "You are so dull."

"You are very foolish, Cersei. Power doesn't come to people like us, we have to build our way to it. If you weren't so narrow-minded maybe you'd see that."

"Us? Are you implying we are in any way similar?"

"Good night, Cersei," he mutters and closes his eyes.

He hears Cersei turn around in bed, her back to him again, but a few minutes afterwards there is the rustle of the bed sheets, the sound of her angry fist as she hits her pillow and finally her voice, firm and low.

"Maybe," she says.

"Good."

"Stop smiling like a cat."

"Cats don't smile, Cersei."

"Lions smile and I'll feed you to one if you don't go to sleep at once."

"I'm terrified," he deadpans.

She hits him hard with the pillow, so he snatches it away and tosses it off the bed. She retaliates by grabbing his pillow and hurling it across the room, and then neither of them agree to get out of bed and fetch the pillows, so they sleep like that.

She can be such a child, Cersei! A misbehaved, rotten child, but sometimes Petyr doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Really? What would you know about the lust of men?" Petyr asks mockingly.

 

"A bakery and a mill?" Cersei asks. "What do you intend to do with this?"

"Make bread," Petyr replies.

He is sitting in their solar with the tall, wide windows. The curtains flutter and the scent of the sea drifts inside, along with the noises of the port city. There's the bellowing of bells and the mutter of the crowds at the nearby market. Their home is located in a cul-de-sac, behind tall walls covered with ancient ivy, but they are a stone's throw from the center of Lannisport.

Cersei leans on Petyr's desk and looks at the document again, frowning. "Very funny. I mean why would you ever be concerned with making bread? The Lannisters don't go around buying bakeries."

"If I may remind you, dearest wife, you are a Baelish now. And I am buying this mill and this bakery because unless you have forgotten your husband does not possess deep coffers and I intend to put the loan your father has given me to good use."

Money, money. That is Petyr's favorite topic. Cersei likes spending money, not thinking how to make it. There's something a bit… low about such concerns.

"A bakery," Cersei says, "and what is this? An ale house? You must be joking."

Petyr cocks his head and knits his hands together, leaning back in his chair and looking at her across his desk. "Perhaps our customers will be thirsty after they eat their bread."

"That is ridiculous. I won't have anyone saying Cersei Lannister owns an ale house!" she declares airily.

"It's a good thing I didn't mention the brothel, then, Cersei  _Baelish_."

Cersei thinks he is joking, but then she sees the look on his face and the blood drains from her face. "You don't mean that. You wouldn't—"

"I wanted to. We just couldn't agree on the price. I'll have to look for a better bargain."

"That is inconceivable! Do you realize the shame that would bring to me? I, Cersei Lannister—"

"Cersei _Baelish_ ," he repeats. "And I happen to know Cersei Baelish is used to a certain standard of living which her husband cannot provide unless he has the brains to improve his fortune."

"My father—"

"Do you really want to be dependent on your father, Cersei? Having to always to do what you are told for fear he'll cut off your purse strings?"

When he puts it that way she really doesn't like it at all. And it isn't like they could depend on Jaime, either. Ashara Dayne wouldn't be too thrilled to know the bills of Jaime's sister are being paid with her coin. It really is quite infuriating. She chews her lower lip, considering what to say.

"Well?" Petyr asks.

"How much money does a brothel bring in, anyway?"

He smiles genially and crooks his finger at her. Cersei goes around the desk and stands next to him as he points at a column with figures. It is no small amount.

"Nobody needs to know we own it," Petyr says. "It's easy enough to disguise the true identity of the proprietor."

"Is it? If that's the case it wouldn't be so terrible and the income it would generate would be quite remarkable. I do want new dresses for the tourney at Harrenhal and if I could have a new caul with seed pearls… seed pearls would be perfect," she muses.

They've had to be somewhat thrifty here in Lannisport. The manse Tywin has gifted them has required new furniture, new tapestries, and much attention. And Petyr is absolutely right that her father's purse strings can be tight and when Cersei writes to him about silks and velvet, he chastises her for her frivolities and reminds her that six months have passed and she is still without child. He is rather set on a grandchild.

Cersei has told Petyr that her uncle Kevan would surely extend them a loan to cover her more extravagant purchases, but Petyr is frustratingly logical and he believes that if they should secure such funds, they should be used for a more sensible purchase.

"Oh, but to be associated with such a place, with such women, even in secret," Cersei says in frustration, greed and decorum warring within her.

"You'd be surprised to know the men in high places who associate with such women."

"I'm not surprised by the lust of men."

"Really? What would you know about the lust of men?" Petyr asks mockingly.

"More than you know about the lust of women," Cersei replies even as she blushes, for she does not like it when anyone gets the better of her. "And do not try to pretend that you are a man of the world. I happen to know you are very much a maid."

"I gather you are not," he says, but he doesn't look terribly bothered by it.

Cersei shrugs. "It was one time only and it hurt, so I do know something about men. They are liars and fools who will promise anything in order to get a chance at lifting a woman's skirts. I'm not surprised they'll pay a good coin to do it, either."

She thinks of silly Jaime, straining against her and the sticky mess he left between her thighs. Ashara Dayne could have him, good riddance.

"A cunning insight. Though, just because I haven't shared your bed doesn't mean I might not have sampled others."

"Whose?" Cersei asks. "Just because you played at kissing Cat and Lysa doesn't mean they'd allow you to bed them, and it is not as if you've been chasing the scullery maids here. Don't try to lie to me, you are a green boy."

It's Petyr's turn to blush and she knows this is very much the truth just because of that. Not that she minds. There's something sweet about it.

"You never did kiss me," she muses.

"I kissed you at our wedding."

He'd kissed her on the cheek, to be precise. Which had been fine with her. It was not as if a great passion united them.

"At Riverrun, you dunce," she says, leaning her back against the desk and looking down at him since he is still sitting in his chair. "You'd play those silly games with the others, but never once asked me. Were you scared?"

"The other boys were scared of you, Cersei. I just knew better."

"How so?"

"I assumed if you ever wanted to be kissed you'd make it known," he replies simply and he smiles that taunting grin of his. "You have no problem loudly shrieking your demands."

Cersei is ready with a nasty taunt of her own and she sits herself on his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. They are looking eye to eye at each other. She cocks her head. "Would I?" she asks and she feels a deep, dark satisfaction as she watches him wince and feels him shift uncomfortably.

But he doesn't push her away. "I'm sure you would," he says dryly, and rather than putting his hands on her waist or touching her cheek, he sits stock still, challenging her.

She waits and waits and it's as if he's turned into a marble statue. "You are an idiot," she says and jumps to her feet.

He pulls her back onto the chair, back on to his lap, pulls her into a kiss with his hand in her hair and his tongue in her mouth. She'd played at kissing with Jaime when they were children so the kiss itself does not surprise her, but it is different. Her brother's reverence is missing and instead there is a certain teasing wickedness, a certain playfulness as she changes her position, better settles on his lap, and they kiss again and again.

She feels young and very much alive. She could kiss him and kiss him for hours on end. Cersei sighs and finally draws apart, catching her breath.

"Petyr," she whispers.

But rather than mirroring her own soft joy, Petyr offers her a picture of smug contentment.

"Not so very much a green boy, I think," he says and his mockery is like a bucket of ice water.

She stands up quick. She should have known. Everything is a contest between them, everything is a race. She doesn't mind, normally. But now it stings.

He ought to have offered her a pretty phrase, a compliment, a line from one of the songs. Instead he's ruined the moment and she feels terribly ashamed. She shouldn't let him see her like this, she should always don her armor.

"Try to lay a hand on me again and I'll cut it off," she tells him.

"I've no interest in you. It wasn't I who started this."

"Well, I'm the one who is finishing it," she declares and storms out of the room before he can reply with another barb, another quip of his.

That night, when he comes to bed, he is cautious and he walks around the room like a man who surveys enemy territory while she sinks her nails into the pillow and pretends to sleep. But then two nights later, they speak.

"There's to be a tourney in Harrenhal," he says.

"Yes, everyone knows that," Cersei replies as she brushes her hair.

"Well, how many seed pearls do you want exactly?"

"Are we going to afford them with bread? Wait. Don't tell me. You've bought a dairy farm too and we can have butter."

He leans over her shoulder and looks into the mirror, at her reflection as she stares at the glass. "No. I wrote to your uncle Kevan. He's prepared to loan us a certain sum of money."

"Truly? And you won't complain that it'll be spent on pearls?"

"It'll be a chance to meet many people and you must look your best."

"You too," Cersei says, turning around and making a face. "That doublet is horrid."

"You can pick me a new one," he says simply.

He needs it. Nobody can accuse her husband of having a sense of fashion. He'd look quite charming if only he'd accent his gray clothes with a nice burgundy or plum trimming. He'd be elegant, if he wanted, for he has a natural sleekness to himself.

"You aren't joking? You really are going to buy me jewels and silks?"

"Well… I might invest in a little venture or two with some of the funds," Petyr admits, "though I'm afraid you'll go wanting for butter."

Cersei considers admonishing him and making it clear that such "ventures" should not include brothels, ale houses or the gambling dens Petyr is no doubt considering, but if she has perfected one skill during her marriage so far it is the ability to do sums.

Cersei raises an eyebrow at Petyr. "You best be discreet, whatever it is that you are planning."

"I'm planning to own Lannisport, dear wife."

"Well… it's a start," she says.

He smiles at her confidently and maybe there's some fun in this game of money, this game of power. And, oh she does think together they might play a very good hand or two.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr is used to this smile. Littlefinger, they called him at Riverrun, and they thought very little of him indeed, so Petyr does not mind the young man's grin.

The tourney at Harrenhal is Petyr's beginning. He knows it, he feels it in his bones. His wedding to Cersei Lannister was small and hasty, and they've spent all their time in Lannisport, which means that Petyr has had scant chances to interact in high society. This will be his arrival into a new world and he intends to do it well, so he listens to his wife's advice on his clothes and adornments, he goes over the family trees of the great houses, he hones himself.

There is to be a great feast the first night of the tourney, but before that takes places Lord Tywin Lannister has asked his son-in-law to break his fast with him. Tywin attended Petyr and Cersei's wedding, but he spoke no more than a few words to the groom and this is truly their first meeting.

Cersei has been terribly nervous and also rather peeved that she has not been invited to this small gathering. She alternates between the terror of imagining Petyr will commit a colossal faux-pas and the smug prophesying that he will fail and it will be his fault for not having brought her with him.

She goes on and on like this and Petyr finally chastises her rather loudly, which is unusual for him. Then she mopes and calls him beastly, and he almost feels tempted to put his arms around her and kiss her brow.

He's sure she would tear him to shreds if he did, but sometimes he finds himself awash with this awkward tenderness, wanting to protect Cersei, wanting to hold her tight and tell her that he knows what it is like to battle each and every morn even if they are not warriors. And it makes him wonder about her childhood, her life before Riverrun, what strong currents could have carved her like this.

But he can't bring himself to do it because his wife has eyes as hard as emeralds and there's contempt in her visage. One day, he tells himself, he will be sweet to her and maybe she will be kind, but not now. There's no time for it now for he has a meeting to attend, he cannot be tardy. So he bids Cersei a hasty goodbye and she doesn't even answer him.

Petyr is ushered into the rooms Tywin Lannister occupies. Jaime Lannister is with him, looking handsome and tall and eyeing Petyr with a skeptical smile. He takes in Petyr's plum colored doublet and the golden pin in the shape of a lion which serves as a clasp for his cape.

Petyr is used to this smile. Littlefinger, they called him at Riverrun, and they thought very little of him indeed, so Petyr does not mind the young man's grin. Let him thinks what he wants of him, the man he must impress is Tywin.

They greet each other. Tywin sits down in a great, carved chair and motions for Petyr to sit down too.

"Father, may I have your leave?" Jaime asks.

"You may," Tywin says and Jaime hurries out of the room without giving his brother-in-law one more look. He is not that important, after all.

"My son is eager to see the training yard. He thinks of nothing but jousts and melees and reciting pretty songs to his betrothed. I imagine you are not very good with swords or songs," Tywin says, turning his attention to Petyr.

"I might kill better with a song than with a sword, my lord," he replies and Tywin lets out a dry chuckle.

"You have a quick wit, though I shouldn't be surprised. That first letter you penned was very good. Very smart. Cersei scrawled some nonsense on parchment, I could hardly make out the words. She's never been very articulate when it comes to quill on paper, my daughter.

"You can understand I was furious. My daughter, shaming herself with a nobody and she cannot even write a sentence clearly telling me what happened."

Tywin rests his hands on the chairs of his arm and trains his heavy gaze on Petyr. It feels like having one's skin peeled off, but Petyr does not flinch.

"I could have solved the mess she made a different way. But do you know why I allowed you to marry her? It was that letter and that one sentence you wrote at the end. You said that although Cersei might be dismayed by the prospect of marrying you, you'd serve our house loyally, putting its needs before yours.

"I've always believed that the house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first. It's a lesson my children have never quite learned. Imagine my surprise when an eager, upstart boy should speak the words I've longed to hear."

Tywin pauses and looks at Petyr, but Petyr's face remains impassive. He knows the kind of man Tywin is, he knows his pride. But he also knows his cunning and he knows that he can appreciate cunning in others. So he doesn't flinch nor protest, for he may indeed be an upstart, but he's a smart one.

"You've done well, these past few months in Lannisport," Tywin says, almost offhandedly. "I was quite surprised to hear that little rearrangement of the warehouses that you oversaw."

"It was chaotic. I was glad to bring some order to them."

"It's very industrious of you. And I'm told you've made various and sundry investments in a short time. Smart investments. Did you learn from your father how to handle such business?"

Petyr wonders if Tywin knows about the brothel and the gambling den he owns. He doubts it, but perhaps he is testing him. Petyr squares his shoulders and looks back at his father-in-law.

"I've learned from everyone. I am always looking, reading, thinking. One must, when one is an eager, upstart boy."

Tywin's smile is very sharp, as thin as a blade. But if there had been any danger, it has past. The man is comfortable in Petyr's presence and Petyr, though not quite relaxed, knows better than to exude fear.

Tywin taps his fingers slowly. "You're not very eager on one front. I would have expected my daughter to announce the arrival of a grandchild at this point, especially considering how you two came to be blissfully wed."

To his credit, Petyr looks abashed for only a few seconds before he shakes his head genially and smiles. He cannot and does not wish to divulge the rather chaste nature of his marriage. "We are young. There is time for children," he says, pleased with his choice of words.

"True. But young men die at war all the time and dead men cannot father children."

Petyr thinks to make a quip about how a war is news to him, but the thin smile on Tywin's face has disappeared.

"The King seems disquieted with the Crown Prince's influence and the Crown Prince appears much disturbed by some of the King's choices. After this tourney, Jaime and I will journey back to Casterly Rock, in preparation for his marriage. I believe it is good for young couples to travel when they are newlywed and I will be recommending Jaime and Ashara journey to Starfall."

Petyr is silent, for there are many hidden threads in this simple statement. There is trouble brewing in King's Landing, trouble enough that Tywin Lannister is distancing himself from court and taking his son with him and spiriting him off to Starfall. Jaime would no doubt love going to war, brave young man that he is, but Tywin is correct. Young men die at war. They die in sieges and in dungeons, or else they are maimed. Petyr's own father had been grievously maimed towards the end of the War of the Ninepenny Kings and consequently produced a single son with much trouble.

"You know the meaning of the word, legacy, I imagine," Tywin says.

"I do," Petyr says.

"We'll have to see what legacy you bequeath your family."

"My lord, it is my intent to bequeath glory upon house Lannister," Petyr says, pressing a hand against his chest.

Tywin stands up, signaling the end of their meeting, and Petyr rises to his feet too and bows to his father-in-law. He is rather formidable, Tywin Lannister, and Petyr thinks he can understand Cersei a little better after spending this short amount of time with her father.

"The lion suits you," Tywin says just as Petyr raises his head.

Petyr touches the golden sigil clasping his cape, he feels the coldness of the metal under his fingertips, the shape of the mane and the roaring maw and he smiles. Indeed. He thinks he will make a fine lion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr is very clever and Cersei never really thought that she liked clever men. She's always sought beauty. Men who look like knights from storybooks. He's clever, though, and she likes that.

 

Cersei is beautiful. Her dress is crimson with golden threads and she wears a caul with tiny pearls and upon her neck dangles a single, tantalizing pearl. This is Petyr's gift to her, the perfect solitary pearl; this is the delicate necklace which he draped around her neck to her delight earlier that evening.

"Really? Mine?" she asks. It's the first true gift he's given her, the first unannounced present of their marriage.

"Who else's?" he asks and looks abashed when she hugs him tight.

The feast is large and full of great lords and ladies, but even amongst all these fine people Cersei and her young husband shine brighter than jewels.

She feels proud and basks in the admiration of the crowd. She hears the men whispering "…she looks like the Maid made flesh," and she grins and then she hears the women twittering.

"Who is that?" a lady asks.

"Petyr Baelish, Tywin Lannister's son-in-law."

"My, he looks rather fine."

Cersei glances at her husband and she thinks he does look fine indeed. He is not tall and broad like the young knights who will compete in the tourney, he is not golden and perfect like Jaime, his hands don't have calluses from holding swords. His hands are fine and slim, refined, and he seems elegant. One could hardly believe that he hailed from a meager holdfast, that his name was a line in the sand, not with the way he clasped Cersei's hand and held his head up high.

The adulation and attention of the partygoers is more intoxicating than wine. The men buzz around her, eager, almost frantic for a dance. She dances with Robert Baratheon who holds her too tight, with Prince Oberyn Martell who wastes no time in whispering wicked suggestions in her ear. Even Prince Rhaegar Targaryen notices the fair Cersei and asks for a dance.

But she thinks the best dancer is her husband, who leads her effortlessly, his hand at her waist. She's seen him dance before many times, she knows his courtly talent in this arena, but this is the first time they have danced together and it is different  _watching_  him and moving  _with_  him. It's funny, now that she thinks about it, that they didn't dance at her wedding but the celebration had been muted.

Well, who cares. They are dancing now and she's having fun.

"I must catch my breath," he tells her.

"No, no," she says, laughing. "Dance with me again, catch your breath later."

"Are you drunk?" he asks.

"Don't be silly! No," she says.

They do pause for a few minutes and then they are dancing again. His green-gray eyes are full of mischief. It's much too hot and she can feel beads of sweat sliding under her beautiful dress.

Men will write songs about Cersei after this feast. She knows it. Lords and ladies will open their houses to the young couple, eager to bask in their delightful company. There will be opportunities aplenty for them and she's already thinking of all the little tidbits of knowledge she has gathered as she conversed with her dance partners, a wealth of information which might prove useful to her husband.

But now he's making a jest and she's laughing, and machinations and plans are forgotten as she focuses only on the pleasure of Petyr's company.

Petyr is very clever and Cersei never really thought that she liked clever men. She's always sought beauty. Men who look like knights from storybooks. He's clever, though, and she likes that. She likes his cutting remarks and his ambition and he is boyishly handsome in his own regard.

If he kissed her now it will be like a beautiful bow tying up this evening. She thinks back to that day when they kissed in his solar and the taste of his lips on her own. Fresh, new, his kisses full of promise.

Her husband smiles and Cersei holds her breath, and she thinks that maybe he was right and she is a little drunk. She is drunk on feeling and delight, and she brushes a lock of his dark hair aside.

For a second he stares into her eyes and the same delight brightens his eyes, but then he's looking aside, and the feeling is washed away.

Cersei looks in the same direction and she sees Catelyn Tully walking into the feast. Charming, pretty and smiling. And who cares when Cersei is such a success, when Cersei is more gracious and beautiful. But clearly Petyr cares because he's staring across the room, and it couldn't be more obvious if he yelled it to the world that he pines for Catelyn.

It's writ large on his face.

Cersei blushes furiously, blushes in shame and fury. She sits down, muttering about needing to rest and she watches as Petyr crosses the room and greets Catelyn. Just like that, with such ease.

They are dancing together and Cersei feels as if someone is pinning needles under her nails because Petyr is holding Catelyn tight and his lips are moving softly, his hand is splayed against Catelyn's back.

She watches them dancing and she tugs at the necklace. She rips it off, furious and seething, and slams her hand against the table, the pearl resting against her palm.

Will this dance never end? But then they dance again. It is just like Riverrun, it's like every blasted feast, with Catelyn commanding Petyr's attention and Petyr going to her, eager and shameless.

Cersei holds a cup but doesn't drink. Her sweat has cooled and now it feels like droplets off ice under her silks. She is made of ice, frozen, and when a lord chances by and asks for a dance Cersei declines mutely.

Finally, after an eternity, Petyr returns to her side and Catelyn turns her attention to her betrothed. Cersei stills holds her glass of wine, full to the brim. She feels as if it has turned into vinegar in her hands.

_He belongs to Cat,_ she thinks. He's screaming that woman's name with every tilt of his head, with the very tapping of a single finger against a white napkin.  _Cat._

Petyr sits quietly, he drinks his wine. He is calm and collected. She waits for him to say something, unable to speak because there is such anger in her body, it has robbed her of the capacity to make words.

Finally, Petyr speaks, wine glass in hand. "Will you lay with me tonight?" he asks.

But he sounds indifferent and cool. Perhaps he thinks it is his duty to ask or he hopes to satiate his lust in her arms after Catelyn has inflamed his blood.

It is the worst possible thing he could say to Cersei and she turns steely eyes towards him. "And chance you speaking another woman's name? I think not," she tells him and pushes her chair back.

She forgets the stupid pearl necklace at the table.

Who cares if Cersei is the Maid made flesh when her husband worships at the altar of Catelyn Tully?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always imagined he’d marry a true lady, someone gentle and sweet and full of little courtesies. Like Catelyn Tully.

By the gods he is a fool. A romantic fool, even if he cannot afford to be one.

Cersei is in a fabulous mood. So much so that it almost shocks him. Joy makes her radiant. Petyr is used to her distant, elusive beauty. But she seems present now, very much here with him, and very much alive in a way he cannot explain.

Those green eyes flash with delight and he wonders if he should ask her to lay with him tonight. He’s not made of stone and he is not blind; he acknowledges that his wife is attractive. But Petyr is proud in his own way and the thought of having to beg a woman for her favors repels him. Especially when that woman is Cersei and he is quite certain that aside from laughing her head off – like Cat did that fateful night when he tried to kiss her – she’d also geld him.

The Bitch of Casterly Rock, that’s what everyone called her at Riverrun behind her back, with good reason. But truth be told, Petyr quite enjoys her wickedness.

He always imagined he’d marry a true lady, someone gentle and sweet and full of little courtesies. Like Catelyn Tully. He’d always loved Cat. She had been so good to him and he’d been devoted to her from the start. Back at the Fingers there were no women like that, no true ladies. He grew up in a dismal, cold household, never knowing the definition of beauty. Until he met Cat.   

That’s what he’d always wished for, a true lady as his wife.

It’s funny because despite her high birth, he doesn’t think Cersei is a true lady. She may play the part if it suits her, but it’s a mask and there’s something truly base about her.

Yet it also delights him, that whiff of wretchedness.

But she’s sweet now, sweet as honey; one could almost mistake her for an innocent.

“You barely ever danced at Riverrun. Why not?” he asks her, just to keep himself from asking her that other question.

_Would you lay with me tonight?_ Ah, the thought of saying it!

“They were clowns, the boys there,” Cersei tells him. “They’d step on my toes and look at my bosom rather than my face, and when I told them so, they’d be upset. Men are infuriating.”

“I hope I infuriate you in entirely different and more interesting ways,” he replies.

“Oh, you were never a clown, don’t worry. I hated you for other reasons.”

“Such as?”

“You cheated at cards.”

“No, but you tried to cheat _me_ plenty of times, which struck me as a little cruel since you always wished to play for money.”

“It’s more fun when the stakes are high.”

Petyr smiles. She raises a hand, gently brushing a lock of his hair aside and he stares into her eyes. She could have any man she wanted, if she looked at him with those eyes.

He turns his head away, feeling suddenly abashed.

That’s when Catelyn Tully walks into the feast and his gaze falls upon her. And oh, his heart which has been beating to the rhythm of some new and strange music takes a tumble and finds that old melody.

Catelyn, she is here! Not only that, when he walks up to her and asks her for a dance she looks at him with wide and enthusiastic eyes. She’s never looked at him like this and he imagines part of it must be the cut of his fine clothes, but the other part is that she is looking at him not as a boy but as man.

“You look much grown and so quickly,” she says. “They’re all talking about you.”

“Who is?” Petyr asks eagerly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Everyone,” Catelyn says with a laugh.

He’s danced many times before with Cat and it’s easy, simple, to move with her. It’s like they never parted, like they were just dancing yesterday. But then she mentions Brandon and tells Petyr that the eldest Stark boy has sworn he’ll crown Cat his queen of love and beauty. A hundred knights have made that same promise to a hundred maidens, and it’s a ridiculous promise considering the talented swordsmen assembled at the tourney, but Cat seems to believe it’ll come true.

“Do you remember that time I made a crown of flowers for you and crowned you my queen?” Petyr asks, trying to pull Cat’s attention back to him, trying to erase Brandon.

“Yes, I do. Some of the flowers had thorns. You pricked your fingers, poor thing, and I do believe you might have even picked some poison ivy,” Catelyn says. “Your hands must have ached something awful.”

“I’ll always bleed and ache for you, my lady.”

She blushes. Catelyn has never blushed for him. Not even when they practiced at kissing in the godswood. But the world has changed and he is no longer Littlefinger, that boy who was merely a casual amusement to the Tullys.

All he’s ever wanted is to be noticed, to be appreciated, to be someone. Now he is at the beginning of becoming someone, of shedding his former self and growing a new skin. Influence, money, fame, he wants it all, right this instant.

But love, he also wants love. To him the personification of love is Catelyn Tully, the river maid who gifted him his first kiss. Here she is now, Catelyn Tully in his arms, and Petyr does not doubt that if he plays his cards right he could have her.

Influence, money, fame and… Cersei.

And what of Cersei?

That thought slices through his brain and he chances to raise his eyes, towards the place where his wife sits and he is shocked to see she almost looks forlorn. He realizes only now how quickly he cast her aside to dance with another woman and that this must be upsetting her.  

It is truly a strange night, he thinks, if Cersei is morose because of him.

He wars with the desire to do as he pleases, which means staying by Cat’s side, and playing the role of the dutiful husband, which is expected. Duty wins and he bids goodbye to Catelyn, returning to his seat.

He is ready to regal her with a quip, but then, up close and sitting next to Cersei it is obvious that she is quite upset and he takes a sip of his wine.

All of a sudden rather than feeling like the bold man of the world he was minutes ago, he feels very much a boy and he marvels at his silliness. He’s been mooning over Cat while Cersei sits alone, he’s been speaking flirtatious phrases to a woman who is betrothed while he is married, he’s been thinking of a godswood and a girl who refused him and who would no doubt refuse him again.

_She would not_ , he tries to tell himself, _not now that I am no longer Littlefinger_.  

His station is rising and Cat must like him more now… and yet there’s Cersei of the flashing green eyes right next to him. Cersei who is difficult and hard, and who he doesn’t love because he pictures love as it is in songs.

But he likes her very much and he wants her to know that he does. That despite their differences and their quarrels he enjoys her company, that he thinks her beautiful, that he wants her even if he knows he shouldn’t because she’ll eat him alive if he allows her to have a little piece of him.

If he tells her any of this, she’ll use this knowledge as a weapon.   

“Will you lay with me tonight?” he asks her, and it’s a blunt, foolish thing to say. It’s what he had meant to say before and which comes back to him now.

"And chance you speaking another woman's name? I think not," she replies, mercilessly.

When she stands up she snaps her head away quick, but not so quick that he cannot glimpse tears in her eyes.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why a kiss? Why not. She’s wanted to kiss him the whole night long and their quarrel has only given her desire a different, though no less powerful edge.

She makes quick work of getting out of her dress, but takes her time removing the caul and brushing her hair. Now that she’s alone and back in her room, the wine which had warmed her belly cooling, Cersei debates whether she ought to have left the feast at all. People will have noticed and it is not as if she does not know women are meant to endure their husband's blunders with a stony face.

She violently pulls the bed covers aside, wanting to shred them to pieces with her teeth and nails. A small embroidered pillow falls by her foot. Just then Petyr walks in, looking as guilty as a thief who is being dragged to the executioner, and holds up the pearl necklace. She lets go of the covers.

“You left this behind,” he says, but she doesn’t deign to take the necklace, instead running her hands through her tresses.

He places the necklace on a table and spreads open his hands helplessly.  “Cersei, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what?” she asks and her eyes are like daggers as she kicks the pillow away. “To make a fool of yourself in front of your wife? I’m certain that you did, seeing as you so eloquently pursued Catelyn Tully for all the world to see.”

“I danced with Cat. You danced with half a dozen other men.”

“And I did not want a single one of them.”

“Don’t behave like a child.”

Petyr narrows his eyes at her and she can see this quarrel is going to go on for a while because rather than looking helpless now he seems cold. For every inch of ice in his veins there is fire in hers. It goes like this with them. 

“Are you calling _me_  a child?”

“Indeed. You are making much ado about nothing,” he says, shrugging.

Cersei raises a finger and jabs it against his chest, against the spot where his heart would be if he had one, though she doubts that is the case sometimes.

“Do not lie to me. I know you. I saw you throw yourself at Catelyn’s feet plenty of times before, but back then you were unwed.”

“So I am married and now I may never speak to an old friend?” he asks, sounding rankled, pushing her hand away.

She whirls around, wonders if she can strangle a grown man with an embroidered pillow. “Flirt, that is what you did. And not only flirt, but shamelessly. She blushed as red as a pomegranate.”

“Is it that you are jealous or—“

“Jealous!” Cerei cries out in outrage. “They’ll talk about it in the morrow, how young Petyr Baelish seemed besotted with the eldest Tully girl and how tight he held her in his arms.”

And they will, they most decidedly will. It’s the type of gossip that makes the busybodies giddy. Petyr ought to know better. Catelyn is a woman betrothed, Brandon Stark is in attendance at this tourney, and even if Petyr were not married it would seem unseemly to pay such courtesies and attentions to a maiden who will soon be wed.

“Then it’s not my behavior but the gossip which so upsets you,” he tells her. “Hypocrisy, in other words.”

“Don’t you dare to lecture me about hypocrisy. But if you want it plainly told: you may court other women and have yourself a mistress, but not when I am present.”  

Cersei presses her knuckles against her mouth to keep from shaking and looks down at the floor. She wishes she were not shaking, that she didn’t have the beginning of stupid tears in her eyes, which she slaps away with a harsh palm.

“It’s not the first time I see a man chase after a woman like this,” she mutters. “Men are fools who follow their cock wherever it may lead. I expect stupidities of men, but I somehow thought you were better than _them_.”

Petyr stares at her and Cersei feels quite exhausted, the frenzy of the dance and then the sweet wine she had sipped hitting her hard. She sits at the edge of the bed and rubs her arms.

“Tomorrow I’ll act the love struck fool for all to see and I won’t depart your side. Will that suffice? They won’t speak ill of you. If they do, it’ll be but for a second,” he says. It's as much a peace offering as she'll ever get.

She doesn’t reply, her brow still knit in a frown. He tips her chin up and looks down at her. Cersei sighs, delicately brushing his hand away.

“If there is something I cannot bear, it’s shame,” she confesses. She doesn’t quite know why she tells him this, except that it’s late and the will to battle is fading.  

Petyr looks thoughtful and shakes his head.  “Ah, you, silly girl, sometimes I think we are so much alike,” he whispers.

“Are you mocking me?” she asks, raising a perfect eyebrow at him.

He chuckles, that little dry laugh which perfectly encapsulates him, and Cersei knows he is about to say something very clever. It greatly irritates her that he is so good with words. She shuts him up with a kiss.

Why a kiss? Why not. She’s wanted to kiss him the whole night long and their quarrel has only given her desire a different, though no less powerful edge. Apparently, he feels the same. 

His hands are in her hair and the kiss is deep and he holds on to her as if for dear life. For all their months together, she doesn’t think they’ve ever been this close and the kiss, though in the beginning a model of modesty, changes and soon his tongue is in her mouth, teasing her wickedly. 

“Did you mean it? When you asked before?” she asks when they break apart, feeling a little light-headed.

“That you lay with me? Did you think I’d say it in jest?”

“I never know. Not with you,” she admits. “You might say it to irritate me, who knows. It’s not as if you ever say I’m pretty.”

“Fishing for compliments is unbecoming for a lady, did your septa not explain that?” he asks and he’s winding a finger around a lock of her blond hair.

“My septa told me to do my duty for my husband and she said I’d probably have to bear his attentions every night until he got me with child. But you and I are not like that.”

“Surely your septa also indicated wantonness is a sin,” Petyr says with good humor. “And she didn’t realize that you are capable of strangling a man in his sleep.”

“Is that what frightens you?”

“Maybe…” he whispers as he lets go of Cersei's lock of hair and slides his hand down her neck, resting it on the hollow of her throat, “… I just enjoy the hunt.”

His thumb against her collarbone make Cersei’s eyes flutter close as he kisses her. He has the most wonderful hands, they drive her to distraction as they glide across her shoulders, barely touching her. When she opens her eyes he’s looking at her with such smug satisfaction that she decides she must knock him down a peg.

He’s always smug, so incredibly determined.

She loves to see him stumble.

Cersei tugs at her tunic, divesting herself of her clothing.

She does it to shock him. She’s sure he expects her to be like the maids in songs: coy, evading him. Catelyn Tully would probably be like that, skittish and sweet, doe-eyed ninny.  

Petyr stares at Cersei and she feels giddy, glad to see his careful restraint melting at the sight of her proud, bare flesh. 

“Well? Take your clothes off,” she says. “Must I draw you a map?”

Petyr blushes red as an apple, making Cersei grin. “You best not be joking.”

“Find out.”

Petyr takes off his clothes. Once he’d mentioned his grandfather had been a hedge knight and he had a great-grandfather from Braavos who’d been a sellsword. But he’s inherited none of that brute strength. He’s all sharp angles.

She’s been exactly with one man before and that was Jaime, a hurried little coupling and they hadn’t even had a chance to get properly naked. He’d unlaced his breeches and she’d lifted her skirts, and then it was done.

Which was fine with Cersei since she thinks the importance people give to women’s maidenheads is overblown. But maybe there is something to having the time and chance to carefully look at the body of one’s partner, to run nails across soft skin and deposit fleeting kisses.

She pushes herself to sit upright and leans into him, looking into his green-gray eyes and is pleased to see how he holds his breath when she lays a hand on his thigh and they kiss again, languidly.

They rest their foreheads against each other and his voice is charming and smooth.

“Will you lay with me tonight?” he asks.

And that ridiculous question which had so infuriated Cersei not so long ago now seems perfect.

“Yes,” she says.  

Petyr has a certain smile, a smile that seldom reaches his eyes, watching the world as if it were a masquerade. It’s a smile learnt from his hardscrabble youth and the knowledge that his position is always peripheral. A smile honed by taunts and bullies much bigger than him who didn’t think much of a boy from the Fingers. _Never let them see you_ , that’s the one lesson he’s learned.

Cersei wears a certain golden armor since her childhood. She donned the first piece of it when her mother died and her father’s joy withered. She picked more pieces as she flowered and men stared at her with lust, feeling herself grow smaller and smaller under their gaze which loudly told her she’d never be more than a body, a title, a thing, to them. _Never let them get close_ , that’s the one lesson she knows.

Cersei seldom takes her armor off and Petyr does not often peel off his mask. But he smiles truly at her and she buries her face in his neck.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord of Sheepshit, that was my father. He had bad teeth and rancid breath, and he was angrier than any of the curs we kept.

If they’d told Petyr that he’d bed Cersei Lannister not once, but twice in the span of a couple of hours he would have laughed all the way to Gulltown and back. If then they’d told him Cersei would actually rest her head against his chest and hum merrily afterwards, he would have known the person speaking was mad. But it had happened and he is now lazily running his hands through her hair, which is as fine as a lion’s mane.

It really is uncanny, all that blonde hair and green eyes and pale skin. Very, very naked pale skin.   

“I’ve never heard you sing before,” he tells her. “I didn’t realize you knew any songs.”

“Why wouldn’t I? All ladies know songs.”

“Lysa cried when that singer visited Riverrun and sang for us, remember? You mocked her.”

“Lysa is a silly goat who cries over everything. Besides, you made fun of her too,” Cersei says turning around so that her chin is now resting on his chest and she’s looking up at him as he half-reclines against the pillows.

Their first coupling had been a quick affair, he had simply been too enthused with all that bare flesh. Restraint was easier to summon the second time around and having learned a thing or two in the process he now carefully eyes Cersei and wonders if a third time might not be in the cards. They had, after all, much postponed the consummation of their marriage. He is still much too exhausted to fully consider the idea, but it’s a thought. The candles are burning low, though, and he wars between carnality and fatigue. It’s been a long, tumultuous night.

“On occasion,” Petyr admits.

“It’s funny because Lysa fancied you. She would have loved living in that tiny keep of yours at the Fingers,” Cersei says, smirking. “She could have baked you pies and mended your shirts.”

Petyr shifts uncomfortably, remembering his home. “The Drearfort.”

“Is that the name of it? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it.”

“It has no name. That’s what I call it. It smells like dirty dogs, filth and sheep’s droppings. Lord of Sheepshit, that was my father. He had bad teeth and rancid breath, and he was angrier than any of the curs we kept. Lysa would not have loved it at all, nobody would. You’re lucky you grew up at Casterly Rock with Tywin Lannister, not all of us were so blessed.”

Cersei laughs mirthlessly as she runs a nail across his stomach. “My father is no blessing.”

“Better than mine, no doubt. The bastard couldn’t even spare me a decent cloak, he was too busy drinking to bother with such niceties.”

Petyr thinks back about his arrival at Riverrun and how his shoes and cape were caked with mud, and how they had giggled at him because he looked so poor and slovenly. He’d made a point of being perfectly neat after that, no matter if he was running across the river banks or playing in the godswood. He combed his hair very well, carefully scrubbed his face each morning and chewed mint to make his breath pleasant.   

“How charming. What else?”

“When he wasn’t in his cups he would yell at me, for I was small and scrawny and not the warrior he would have wanted. You know the rest: he sent me off to Riverrun, to see if I couldn’t become something; maybe I’d grow and learn to handle a sword. Well, I’ll never be brawny and I never did care for swords, but it was an end to the beatings.”

He pauses. “I’m certain your father never beat you.”

“No, he didn’t. Tywin Lannister wouldn’t stoop so low.”

“Well then, there’s the difference,” Petyr says bitterly.   

“Did your father pray to the gods?”

“Yes.”

“The gods have no mercy, that’s why they are gods,” Cersei declares as she rolls on her back and shifts a leg, her foot rubbing against his thigh. “My father told me that when he caught me praying. My mother had just died, you see. I didn’t really understand the concept of death. The finality of it. I thought if I prayed very very hard, the gods would return her to me. I was four.

“My aunt Genna says he wasn’t always like that, but I can’t recall. She says when my lady mother lived my father was happy and he loved her more than anything in the world. But I think that would be worse.”

“Why?”

“If losing someone can change you so utterly, then we must live in constant fear of loss. Can you imagine that dread, eating you alive? Anyway, he was and is a tyrant.”

“He seems to like me well enough.”

“Of course he does,” Cersei says. “He doesn’t like Tyrion at all and no doubt has been hoping for a long time to replace him in his heart with a make-believe son. I have disappointed him too much, but he might be pleased by you.”

“How exactly have you disappointed him?” he asks with a frown.  

“By not securing Rhaegar’s attention, for one. My lord father threw a tourney to welcome the prince to the west and I was presented to him wearing a magnificent dress and a necklace of the finest emeralds. I was supposed to impress him and the king, and they’d announce our engagement before the tourney’s end. But it did not come to pass.”

“Hmm,” Petyr replies.

She is looking up at the ceiling as she speaks and her lips are curling into a smile. He feels a tiny stab of jealousy hearing her talk because she can’t quite disguise the naïve, maidenly dreams she had and Petyr knows well he is no silver-haired prince. In fact, as they just established, he is a nobody who stumbled into a lucky marriage and the worm of insecurity crawls upon his heart on more occasions that he’d like to admit.

“The funny thing is I was so convinced he’d wed me. A soothsayer promised it,” Cersei says.

“Did she read your palm?”

“No. She was horrid and cut our thumbs and drank our blood.”

Blood magic, then. The sigil of the Baelish was a Titan’s head from Braavos and it sounded like the sort of Braavosi nonsense his grandfather had believed.

“What did she tell you?”

“She said I’d marry a king without a crown and give him three children, and the boys would wield mighty swords but my daughter would learn to fly.”

“Hence you thought you’d marry the young dragon.”

“Wouldn’t you? But of course, he married Elia of Dorne and I’ve wed you.”

“And you’re terribly disappointed,” Petyr says impassively.

“A little less now,” Cersei replies with a tiny shrug, a wry smile on her lips. “Anyway, I’ll never pay a soothsayer to read my fortune again. What will be, shall be, I suppose.”

“I believe we make our fortune. Step by slow step, up we go.”

“I must be your first step in that case.”

“A comely one.”

“Comely! Have you paid me a compliment? The world must be spinning upside down.”

“If you’ll make a big show of it then I shan’t do it again.”

“If you won’t say it, _I_ shall fetch my robe and go to sleep on the far end of this bed.”

She sits up, her hair shielding her nakedness, but this almost demureness only makes her more exciting because he can’t quite glimpse her breasts, her nipples hidden behind that golden veil and he thought he’d pace himself but… well. Yet he attempts a show of indifference, not wishing to let her know quite yet what he’s thinking.

“If you will, then you will,” he says.

“And you’ll do nothing to stop me.”

“What? Tie you to the bed?”

“That’s a thought.”

He can’t quite hide the thrill that races down his spine at those words and of course she’s noticed and of course when he tries to touch her, she scoots back and laughs at him. When he reaches for Cersei again, she moves back and then it becomes a game, until she’s under him and she’s stopped laughing. She moves her hands up to touch his hair and she gasps when he kisses her breasts, and then she is urging him on but he repays her by moving very slow, touching her very lightly. Alas, there’s a limit to his teasing and eventually he succumbs, gives in to her, takes her again.

“I’m not disappointed,” she says later, when he’s about to fall asleep and she’s curled next to him.

“Me neither,” he whispers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s irritating and disgustingly clever,” Cersei says, in what she thinks is a monotone, but Jaime quirks an eyebrow at her.

They bump into Jaime and Ashara the following morning. Cersei hasn’t had a chance to speak more than a handful of words to her brother and it seems fitting that both couples should stumble upon each other.

When Cersei spots her brother, he is smiling as Ashara ties an embroidered handkerchief around his wrist. A token he will wear during the tournament. It makes Cersei want to roll her eyes. She has never understood these chivalrous details. Once, she wanted to hold shield and sword, but it was the lure of battle, of blood and rage, which attracted her. These fights, however fierce they may seem, are theatrical pageants.

Cersei is certain she’ll never have a chance to tie a handkerchief around Petyr’s wrist before he participates in a joust, but she doesn’t mind.

Cersei and Petyr approach the couple. Jaime smiles at them. “Sweet sister, my good-brother,” he says in greeting and there is a round of introduction and pleasantries before Jaime asks to borrow Cersei for a moment and they step aside, leaving Petyr and Ashara to chat.

“She is pretty and seems livelier than Lysa Tully,” Cersei says, eyeing the dark-haired girl.  

“Aye,” Jaime replies.

“Do you love her?”

Jaime’s smile slips a little. “I believe I shall, one day soon.”

They take a few more steps away from Petyr and Ashara as Cersei rests her hand on her brother’s arm and he looks nervous now that the others are not watching; his voice is low and strained.

“I care about you, Cersei. But you must know… nothing good would have ever come of us. What would we do? Have quick, clandestine reunions, always fearful someone might find us out? Perhaps you might birth my child and would pass it off as Petyr’s, and I’d never see the babe. It would be his to rear and father.  And then, if anyone should suspect us, we’d bring our families low. We’d hurt those who care about us. I just… I want to be happy. Do you understand?”

Who is this young man standing before her? Cersei thought she knew him as well as her own reflection. He’s not her Jaime. He takes her hands in his and clutches them tight.

“You’ve changed,” Cersei says.

“So have you.”

“I am not chiding you,” she replies. “But you have. I’m wondering how it happened.”

“A marriage… it’s putting down roots. It’s building something _together_.”

Has Cersei ever wondered what a marriage is? When she was a child she thought a marriage meant a crown and when that did not come to pass she imagined a marriage meant doing one’s duty. But her image of duty, of marriage, ended with the wedding feast. She could see nothing beyond it. There were vague notions that she would be a great lady, but not how such greatness should be achieved.

Perhaps if her lady mother had lived Cersei would have known more. As it is, she is woefully unprepared for marriage and only now realizes it.

“You’ve grown wiser. Who taught you to be wise? Was it Ashara?” she wonders and one look at Jaime makes her realize she has correctly guessed the answer. “Then you will truly be happy,” she says, but shockingly she feels very little rancor. It wilts from her body as she remembers her mother and she wonders what Joanna would think of her children.

Her parents had been happy. Joanna had loved Tywin; she’d loved Cersei and Jaime. It would have pleased her to know her son was to marry the sweet, violet-eyed girl from Starfall. And perhaps, Cersei thinks, she might have liked Petyr, too.

Truly, she is not angry, and it surprises her. She expected to be furious, upset that he intends to replace her, yet now the games they played seem that: games. The follies of jealous youngsters. She wanted Jaime to be hers and hers alone, to be her mirror and reflect her, to be the other half of her soul. But now Cersei doesn’t feel like being mirrored is that important. There is more to life than merely admiring a reflection.

“I suppose it’s just as well that you should wed a Dornish girl,” Cersei muses, “Mother might have picked Elia for you.” 

“And Oberyn Martell for you.”

“He’s much too forceful.”

Here’s another thing Cersei had never considered: the type of man she would wed. She had been so certain that Rhegar would make her his queen that she had not bothered to wonder what husband she might _want_ to have. She’d thought he’d be handsome, yes, and her notions ended there.

Now she thinks that someone too forceful, too crude, too boastful or rash would make her sick to her stomach. There are entirely too many lords like that.

“Your husband, he treats you well?” Jaime asks.

“He’s irritating and disgustingly clever,” Cersei says, in what she thinks is a monotone, but Jaime quirks an eyebrow at her.

“I remember when I visited Riverrun with the pretext of considering Lysa Tully as a possible bride and met him. You wrote about him sometimes. Petyr this and Petyr that. I thought he sounded like a stupid boy. I couldn’t picture you befriending some lordling from the Vale. But then I saw you together and… you were jesting with him. You were friendly with each other.”

“He was friendly with Cat and Lysa,” Cersei says, dismissive.

But of course this wasn’t quite true. It was not as if they never spent time together. Because they did. They played cards long before that fateful, drunken night. They talked, of many and sundry things. And even though Petyr rarely mentioned the flint tower from which he hailed and Cersei did not discuss her life before Riverrun either, they’d managed to know each other.

 _Your best confidant and ally_ , she thinks.  

“He played with them, not with me.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jaime says. “But he liked you well enough. It made me angry. I thought you’d forsaken me. That is why… I didn’t want anyone else to have you Cersei, didn’t want anything tearing us apart and I think that is why I… why we—”

“It’s why you begged me to fuck you that one time,” Cersei replies.

This is partially an inaccurate description of their encounter, since she had been as eager as him. The time apart had only honed their mutual desire. Jaime had been irritated by the thought of marrying Lysa, who he disliked, and Cersei had been irritated by the suspicion that Jaime was actually interested in Catelyn. Put together, all of this served as a small powder keg.

“Yes. And also because I cared about you, very much. I don’t regret it, Cersei.”

“I don’t regret it either,” she admits.

“But now you have him and I am to be married.”

“I know,” Cersei says and she turns her head to look in Petyr and Ashara’s direction. “The Targaryens wed brother to sister. But we are not dragons.”

“Do you love him?” Jaime asks, softly, hesitantly.

What is love? Love is a poison. Tywin Lannister loved Joanna, but when she died his heart blackened. Cersei knows loves kills as certainly as an arrow. She could love Jaime because he was her kin, her flesh, but anyone else holds untold dangers.

Cersei bites her lip and frowns. “I can’t say,” she admits.

Jaime nods, even if there’s a note of sadness in his green eyes, as if he knows something she does not.

They walk slowly back towards Ashara and Petyr. By the time they reach them, Jaime has donned a happy smile and he makes a joke about ladies and lances. Ashara beams at him, delighted.

A few quick minutes in the young woman’s presence have assured Cersei that Ashara is the type of girl who believes in knights rescuing maidens from tall towers, who can love with an open and untarnished heart, who fiercely believes in honor. Jaime will delight her.

“Welcome back, my lady,” Petyr says when Cersei slides next to him.

Petyr gracefully bows and takes Cersei’s hand, holding it up and pressing it to his lips. It’s the type of frivolous courtly gesture which all men perform, but he does it with a tiny crooked smile which is devilishly smug. It makes Cersei want to slap and kiss that sardonic mouth of his.

That’s not quite love. But she suspects it will be, one day soon.

   


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our characters reach and end, or maybe a beginning.

It is the last day of the tourney and everyone is readying for the final, massive feast which will cap the celebrations. Cersei is already outfitted in a green gown which sets off her eyes, her hair braided and elaborately piled atop her head, but she is administering some last touches: she vacillates on her choice of perfume.

Meanwhile, Petyr sits comfortably in a chair, watching her lazily as she stands in front of the mirror.

“I find it very amusing, truth be told,” Cersei says. “The moment Rhaegar placed the crown upon her head I thought Robert Baratheon was going to explode into a million pieces.”

Yes, the tongues have been wagging eagerly about the prince’s slight against his southern princess. A crown of blue roses for the Stark maiden was an obvious, loud insult. Petyr suspects Cersei delights in this faux pas because Elia is the aggrieved party.  

“Truly? I’m surprised he noticed anything concerning Lyanna Stark considering the way he was staring at your breasts,” Petyr says.

He doesn’t speak with any spite. Men can stare at Cersei as much as they want as long as Petyr is the lord who holds her at night. And he’s been thinking of holding her in a very salacious manner for the past few minutes.  

“Are you chiding me for my choice of dress or him for his inability to keep his eyes on my face?”

“I believe that even if you were wearing a burlap sack and caked in dirt men would want you.”     

“Your compliments are sweet, dear husband,” Cersei says with a smirk.

“I know what would be sweeter.”

He stands up and idly slides a finger down her back, tracing the lacings of her dress, but Cersei brushes him away. “Don’t muss me,” she says. “It took ages to finish my hair and I’m not calling the maid in again.”

“We have time to kill.”

“Then kill it by talking to me. You’re supposed to be a good conversationalist. Tell me something interesting.”

Petyr watches his wife as she opens a tiny glass bottle and daintily presses the stopper against her wrists. He walks behind her, his eyes on her reflection. Her gown for this evening is a paragon of modesty, the collar of her dress high, but the bodice is tightly fitted and the fact that so much skin is hidden away makes her more alluring.

“Something interesting. Let’s see… there’s the whiff of war in the air,” he tells her and delights in the way her face shows no fear, just eagerness.

“Oh?” Cersei says. “Rhaegar and Aerys?”

“You noticed.”

“Their mutual loathing is quite obvious. But war?”

“Your father seems to think so.”

“That certainly is an interesting issue. How shall we align ourselves?” Cersei says and she claps her hands like a little girl. This too delights him.  

“I’ll tell you my idea, but first you tell me yours,” he says.

“Are we playing a game? You show me yours, I’ll show you mine?” Cersei replies, her eyes fixing on him in the mirror. “Well, my father has served Aerys for a long time and one would expect him to align with him, as will all the old lords. But the younger lords no doubt will take to Rhaegar, especially those with dubious prospects.”

“There lies the thorn, for the older lords will have more experience in battle, yet Rhaegar cannot be underestimated. So many people dislike the king and whisper of his madness. Rhaegar makes a pleasing alternative.”

“Who would you want to align with?”

“Nobody.”

“And miss the tide? Those who side with the victor shall profit.”

“Ah, but there are other ways to profit.”

“How?”

“Bread,” Petyr says simply.

Cersei raises a dubious eyebrow at her husband. “Bread again?”

“Yes. We purchase flour, tallow, salted fish, whatever we can get our hands on. We place it in a pleasant little warehouse in Lannisport and we wait.”

“Stockpiling food,” Cersei says.

"Stockpiling supplies."

She considers the notion and nods slowly, walking away from the mirror. Then her pretty mouth curls into a deceptively lovely smile that he has learned to identify as a mark of deviousness. She has a wicked idea in her head.

“You can’t keep it in Lannisport, if anyone should attack the docks they’ll burn your warehouse down and all your supplies within.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Take it to several places. Casterly Rock, for one. The Fingers, for another.”

“The Fingers,” Petyr says dubiously. “There is nothing there.”

“Precisely. You can say you are fixing up your childhood home and nobody will think it a stretch of the imagination. After all, a lord who has come into some money would want to strengthen his keep and he’ll need supplies for that, men to do the job. Nobody cares about the Fingers, it’ll be the last place brigands or pirates think to raid.”

“Wouldn’t that be funny. Hiding grain in those little coves and bays,” Petyr says with a chuckle.

“It’s full of inlets and channels. It’s the perfect place.”

“What a clever girl you are,” he says and places his arms around Cersei from behind. This time she doesn’t warn him about mussing her hair and he knows she is grinning.

He begins kissing her neck, feels her heart beating beneath his palm when he presses it against her breast and he turns her towards the mirror so that he can see her face in it as he stands behind her. He wants to undo her dress and take it off, but it might be best to lift her skirts and press her against the bed. It’ll be easier and quicker, but he hasn’t made up his mind.

“We must fill our purses and keep our ears open. Gold is useful, but knowledge is power.”

“No. Power is power. I lived with my father long enough to know that,” Cersei says and turns around so that she’s facing him. “Coins will buy you whispers, but you must also buy swords. The higher you rise, the more they will resent you and you must be able to fight them on every field.”

“Sellswords are so common, Cersei,” he says. A small part of him will always despise his father and grandfather for being mercenaries instead of great lords. He doesn’t wish to be associated with such folk.

“Don’t’ think yourself above such necessities. Steel and fire can get a point across better than your pretty words,” Cersei says and he supposes she might have a point. For now, though, he doesn’t really wish to consider mercenaries or hedge knights, not when he can make quick work of those laces on Cersei’s gown.

“But you like my words, my lady. Did you not just say that?” he reminds her.

“Yes. And you seem to like this dress by the way you are pawing at me.”

“I like your body, the dress is inconsequential. Now, may I remove it?”

“You are greedy.”

His hands fall on her waist as she raises her arms and wraps them around his neck. She tilts her head as she looks at him thoughtfully. She places a finger on his lips and slides it down to his chin, pausing there.

“But will you grant me my due? We can have it _all_ , but not if we are apart. Battles require unified fronts. Will you share that power you seek? Promise you will and I’ll help your climb,” she says. "It'll be ever so easy, so swift."

It makes Petyr want to laugh. Where other women would ask for promises of eternal love, here is his wife demanding a different sort of allegiance. He takes her face between his hands and holds it up, so she is staring at him.

“I’ll give you power. And I’ll give myself, if you want to have me,” he says.

He thinks these are their true vows. The platitudes they spoke in the sept were meaningless, their marriage an elaborate sham. This is the moment of their wedding.  

“I’ll have you,” she says.

There’s something deliciously heady about those three words. It’s not ‘I love you,’ but somehow it feels more fitting. Although he’d never thought this is what he might want, he is clever enough to know it’s what he needs.

Petyr smiles as Cersei closes her eyes and kisses him. She kisses him with a newfound sort of gentleness that is only for him and him alone, which the rest of the world will never see, and he kisses her back with a tenderness he thought he’d misplaced.

They're both smart enough to disbelieve pretty courtly songs. They know survival is the only name of the game. But maybe, in their case, there’s room for hearts to align with high ambition.

THE END


End file.
